Untried?

Unkindness is a gift
no one wants to receive,
yet many are eager to give.
Being unkind teaches nothing;
through unkindness, we harm,
we challenge a person.
Through kindness, you charm—
you change a person.

No society, no organization
has ever truly tried kindness.
Even places of worship,
kindness remains only in theory,
for they were never kind
to one another.

Yet, in the spiritual world,
examples abound—
Krishna and Sudama*,
Bhakta Prahlad*,
Satyakam Jabala*,
Yudhishthira*, who refused
to enter heaven without
his faithful companion,
a stray dog.

You have the parable
of the Good Samaritan*,
the merciful Joseph
forgiving his brothers*,
Tabitha’s charity*,
and Jesus with the woman
caught in adultery*.

…I know, I know—
the readers grow weary
of such theoretical talk.
What stirs in their minds
is that wide, untried distance
between theory and practice.
Yet if ever they dared
to harness it,
the world would become
a space of solace.

 

Sudama, a poor Brahmin, traveled to see his childhood friend, Lord Krishna, who was now the wealthy king of Dwarka. With nothing to offer but a handful of puffed rice given to him by his wife, Sudama was hesitant to seek help. However, Krishna greeted him with immense love, honoring their old friendship over their new differences in status. Krishna took the meager offering and relished it.

Young Prahlad was a devout worshipper of Lord Vishnu, but his father, the demon king Hiranyakashipu, hated Vishnu and demanded worship for himself. Despite repeated torture and threats, Prahlad never lost his faith or his kind nature, insisting that Vishnu resided everywhere, including in his father. When Hiranyakashipu threatened to kill his son, Prahlad responded with unwavering calm.

A young boy named Satyakam Jabala was eager to become a student of a respected sage. However, at the time, only those of the priestly Brahmin class could become spiritual students, and they had to state their father's lineage (gotra). When asked for his gotra, Satyakam truthfully told the sage that his mother, Jabala, did not know his lineage as she had been a servant who "wandered a lot" in her youth.

Yudhishthira's devotion to the dog was the final test of his righteous character. The dog was revealed to be Dharma, the personification of righteousness, who had come to test him. This act of unconditional kindness proved Yudhishthira's purity of heart and earned him entry into heaven. It serves as a reminder that compassion should be shown to all living beings, not just those who can offer a reward. 

The Parable of the Good Samaritan This story, told by Jesus, features a Samaritan—a person typically despised by the Jewish people—who stops to help a Jewish man who was robbed, beaten, and left for dead. The Samaritan's radical kindness and selfless compassion stand in stark contrast to the religious leaders who passed by, illustrating that mercy and love should be shown to all, regardless of background.

Joseph forgiving his brothers After Joseph's brothers sold him into slavery, he rose to become a powerful ruler in Egypt. When his brothers later came to Egypt seeking food during a famine, Joseph had the power to punish them. Instead, he forgave them, revealing himself and saving his entire family from starvation. His kindness, born from his faith, changed their lives and secured the future of his people.

Dorcas's charity Described in the book of Acts, Dorcas (also called Tabitha) was a woman "full of good works and acts of charity" who was known for making clothes for the poor and widows. Her death caused immense grief in her community. In response to their pleading, the Apostle Peter was moved to resurrect her, demonstrating that her genuine kindness had a powerful impact on those around her and brought the community together.

Jesus and the woman caught in adultery When a woman was brought before Jesus by religious leaders who intended to stone her, Jesus intervened with unusual kindness. By writing on the ground and challenging her accusers with the words, "Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her," he dismantled their self-righteousness. His action, and subsequent forgiveness toward the woman, saved her life and taught a profound lesson about grace.

[Source: Wikipedia]

 

The Paradox of Habit

What slowly eases
habits of being around—
they suffocate us
and intoxicate us
all at once,

like smoke that lingers
long after the fire is gone,
like voices we carry
though their speakers are silent.

We mistake them for comfort,
but they press close,
wrapping us in patterns
we forgot we chose.

And when they loosen—
a sudden hush,
a window opening
onto air we never knew
was ours to breathe.

 

what was, is

the mountain holds
its silence, just as it held
not as a threat
but as a question

you move upward,
each step leaving behind
the weight you once
believed was yours

air thins,
yet vision clears
stone becomes less
a barrier,
more a passage

what seemed immovable
is only the outline of fear
what remained remains
as the horizon
unfolding without beginning
furthered with steps

The Weight of Gold, the Grace of God

I chased the gold, the shining gleam,
Through broken days and half-lost dreams.
My hands were glued to fleeting things,
Blind to what true goodness brings.

I joined the guild of grasp and gain,
Where greed was guarded, granted grain
Each grade I climbed, each deal I made,
Left deeper wounds that never fade.

I’d grind the system from place to place,
Masking gripe with shallow grace.
The world said “go,” and so I ran,
A gnawed and ghastly ghost of man.

They called me gud in jest and scorn—
A fool, a fraud, by fortune torn.
Even gord and goard meant more than me,
For I had lost what makes souls free.

But in the quiet, I heard a sound,
A whisper rising from the ground.
Not loud, not proud—but good and kind,
It stirred the ashes of my mind.

"Return," it said, "no need to hide.
Let go of pride—let Me inside."
I fell, undone, no mask to wear,
And found my broken soul laid bare.

And then—oh God!—Your light poured in,
Not to condemn, but cleanse my sin.
You were the guide I never knew,
The truth beneath the lies I grew.

Redemption came, not dressed in gold,
But in a mercy quiet and bold.
Not earned by grade or guild or fame,
But by the power of Your name.

Now I walk, though scarred, made new,
With heart unglued from what’s untrue.
God, You are good. You broke my fall.
You are my gold—my all in all. 

The Sailing Time

The Sailing Time

I launched paper boats
in the rain,
their fragile sails trembling,
their voyages endless
in my mind.
Even when the water
pulled them under,
I dreamed them rising again—
undaunted, sailing to places
I could never name.

From the balcony, I clung
to the last outline of
my father,
his figure swallowed
by the street,
his absence a hollow
that footsteps in the
evening would mend.
The soft strike of shoes
on stone—
our secret signal to
scatter toys,
to open books,
to pretend wisdom
already lived in us.

But time is a thief
that trades play for
silence,
imagination for routine.
We give away so much—
our days, our people,
our tender illusions.
And the heaviest gift
surrendered
is innocence itself,
slipping from our hands
like paper boats
that do not rise again.

 

Le temps en voile

Je lançais des bateaux
dans la pluie battante,
leurs voiles fragiles
frémissaient de peur.

Même si l’eau sombre
les engloutît soudain,
je voulais qu’ils voguent,
hardis, renaissants.

Du balcon j’attendais
le dernier contour
de mon père absent,
avalé par la rue.

Ses pas du soir venaient,
douce percussion,
signe clandestin
pour fermer nos jeux,

ouvrir des cahiers,
feindre la sagesse
qui déjà, peut-être,
habitât nos fronts.

Mais le temps dérobe :
il troque le silence
contre nos éclats,
nos songes contre l’ombre.

Nous donnons nos jours,
nos êtres, nos rêves.
Le plus grand des dons
qu’il exige encore :

l’innocence pure,
qui fuit de nos mains
tel un frêle bateau
ne se redressant plus.

Knowing I, self

it is here now
yet it is nowhere

it is physical
it is material
yet it is not

it can hear you
yet it doesn’t listen

it is trapped
in life’s turmoil
yet it is free
absolutely

it is the most concrete
yet it is abstract

it is tied with you
every moment
yet it is unattached

it is finite and minute
yet it is endless and vast

Strange

 Strange

I cannot refuse my being
it clings, relentless
yet when I reach for “I,”
it slips, elusive.

the most concrete
the most abstract

A name stitched loosely,
a jacket ill at ease
my body writes its riddles
in scars and wrinkles.

Race, culture, origin
cupboards full, yet soul
unseen.

The sun crosses the sides,
in front of the eyes
every minute of the day
bit by bit
yet I know for sure
it doesn’t move an inch.

The horizon’s line
a seam sewn by illusion,
the desert offers mirages
castles of air that dissolve,
photographs pause time,
but time sneaks past their
frame, we plant flags on wind,
claiming smoke as homeland.

the most abstract 
the most concrete

Ancestry whispers in blood,
branches broken, voices fading,
mirrors stack in drawers, each
reflection another mask.

Fights erupt for shadows, names,
borders, empty crowns
strange!
We duel for ghosts stitched in
fragile terrain.

Perhaps the “I” is a thread
of spider silk a cup held warmly
at dawn or a gaze that lingers,
unspoken, yet understood.

I stop seeking as if “I” were a coin
instead I listen: seas remembering
ships, earth holding footsteps,
strange — to exist as a witness,
an actor, strange, magnificent,
a song in between illusion on one hand
and on the other it appears real.

Étrange

Je ne puis refuser mon être
il s’accroche, implacable.
Pourtant, quand je tends
la main vers le « je »,
il s’échappe, insaisissable.

le plus concret
le plus abstrait 

Un nom cousu à la hâte,
une veste mal ajustée ;
mon corps écrit ses énigmes
en cicatrices et en rides.

Race, culture, origine
des armoires pleines,
mais l’âme invisible
le soleil traverse mes yeux,
minute après minute,
jour après jour, et pourtant
je sais avec certitude
qu’il ne bouge pas d’un pouce.

La ligne de l’horizon,
couture brodée d’illusions
le désert offre des mirages
châteaux d’air qui se dissolvent,
les photographies figent le temps,
mais le temps glisse hors du cadre.

le plus abstrait 
le plus concret

Nous plantons des drapeaux
dans le vent,
réclamant la fumée pour patrie,
l’ascendance murmure dans le sang,
branches brisées, voix qui s’effacent.

Des miroirs s’empilent dans
des tiroirs, chaque reflet,
un autre masque. Des luttes
éclatent pour des ombres,
des noms, des frontières,
des couronnes vides.

Étrange ! Nous croisons le fer
pour des fantômes cousus dans
une terre fragile. Peut-être que
le « je » est un fil de soie d’araignée,
une tasse tiède tenue à l’aube,
ou un regard qui demeure
muet, mais compris.

Je cesse de chercher,
comme si le « je » était
une pièce perdue. Je
préfère écouter : les mers se
souvenant des navires,
la terre gardant la trace des pas.

Étrange, magnifique
un chant suspendu entre illusion
et ce qui paraît réel,
frémissement d’un mystère éternel.

অচেতন সহমরণ

পৃথিবী জ্বলছে
অশান্ত মহাসাগর ক্ষুব্ধ সব
মহাদেশ, ক্রদ্ধ পর্বতমালা
চিন্তিত আকাশ, বাতাস, আলো। 

ইরাক ইরান ইস্রায়েল নেপাল
জর্জরিত যুদ্ধে নাজেহাল 
ক্ষমতার উন্মত্ত নেশা
হিংসা অনাহার অবিচার
বেভিচার অহংকার
এই ঘূর্ণিঝড়ে ঘুরপাক খাচ্ছে
মুখরা মানুষের, নির্বাক প্রাণীদের
শুনি আর্তনাদ হাহাকার। 

আমাদের আদরের
সবেধন নীলমনি গ্রহ
শিক্ষা স্নেহ সভ্যতা
মুখোসে আজ বিধ্বস্ত
বিপর্যস্ত।    

যে মারছে যে মরছে
সবাই যে ডালে বসে আছে
সেই ডালই কাটছে।

বোমা, ড্রোন আরো কত
হুঙ্কার চলছে দিনরাত
প্রতিদিন অহরহ। 

আজ কার কাছে করব প্রার্থনা
কার কাছের যাব নিয়ে
স্বার্থের ঝুলি, ফেলি দীর্ঘনিশ্বাস
বুদ্ধিহরণ হয়েছে। চলছে
সহমরণের প্রতিযোগিতা।

সেই প্রাচীন চিন্তা, সেই বৃদ্ধ
মনোভাব কেন? নতুন প্রযুক্তি,
নতুন ভাবে পুরোনো জিঘাংসাকেই
জন্ম দিচ্ছে কেন, এই প্রশ্ন থাক
আজ মানুষের কাছে, মানুষের হাতে।

অস্ত্রশস্ত্র কবে হবে সম্পূর্ণ বর্জন
ঘৃণা হিংসার কবে হবে বিসর্জন।

আমাদের হাওয়া মাটি জল
আলো আজ কত ক্লান্ত, তারা
বলছে তারস্বরে একই কথা
আমাদের বাঁচাও, আমাদের বাঁচাও।  

আসুক নতুন সকাল, একটু স্বস্তি পাই।
সুখ, শান্তি, সমৃদ্ধি, যা আমরা
মনেপ্রাণে চাই, একসাথে নতুন ভাবে
গড়ি এস সকলেই।  

জ্বলন্ত ধরা ভারাক্রান্ত জীবন
আসুক ফিরে আবার শান্তি,
ওই শুদ্ধ, ওই পবিত্র মন
জ্বলজ্বল করুক আকাশের তারা
সৃষ্টির আশীর্বাদে, চারিদিক যাক ভেসে
প্রাচুর্যে পরিপূর্ণতায় নতুন সূর্য উঠুক
নতুন আলোয় হেসে।   

----

Collective destruction

The world is burning —
the oceans restless, continents
enraged, mountain ranges furious;
the sky, the wind, the light — all anxious.

Iraq, Iran, Israel, Nepal — bruised and
gasping in war, power’s maddening
intoxication, worse than grass,
hunger for violence, injustice,
shameless cruelty, pride — 
in this cyclone they whirl:
clamorous humans, mute creatures. 
I hear their howls, their lamentations.

Our beloved, tender jewel — this blue
planet of learning, of affection,
of civilization — wears a mask and
lies in ruins, undone.

Who kills, who dies — the one who sits
on the branch cuts the very limb
they perch on. What morons!

Bombs, drones — how many roars go
on, day and night, relentless as ever.

To whom should I offer prayer now?
To whom shall I entrust the purse
of my hopes? 

We expel long sighs; wisdom is stolen.
The contest of mutual annihilation proceeds.

Why this ancient thinking, this senescent
attitude?  Why does new technology,
new methods, keep birthing the
same old hatred? 

This question remains with humanity —
in the hands of humankind.

When will weapons be wholly abandoned?
When will hatred and violence be cast away? 

Our air, soil, waters, light — how weary
they are; they speak with the same voice:
*Save us, save us.*

May a new morning come; may we find
some respite.  Happiness, peace,
prosperity — what we long for
in heart and soul — let us build them
together in a new way, all of us.

Let the burdened, burning earth
and the weighted lives return to calm. 
Let that pure, sacred spirit blaze anew
like a star in the sky — a blessing of creation. 
Let abundance flow in every direction;
let a new sun rise, laughing in fresh light.

---

Destruction collective

Le monde brûle —
océans agités,
continents en flammes,
montagnes furieuses ;
ciel, vent, lumière —
tout tremble d’angoisse.

Irak, Iran, Israël,
Népal meurtris,
haletants de guerre,
ivres de pouvoir :
faim de violence,
orgueil insensé,
cruauté nue.

Dans ce cyclone —
humains clamants,
bêtes muettes.
J’entends leurs cris.

Notre joyau bleu,
tendre planète,
mère du savoir,
gît en ruine,
masquée, défaite.

Qui tue ? qui meurt ?
Celui qui s’assoit
sur la branche
et la tranche.
Ô insensés !

Bombes, drones,
leurs rugissements
déferlent sans trêve,
jour et nuit.

À qui prier ?
À qui confier
ma bourse d’espoir ?

Soupirs profonds —
la sagesse volée.
L’anéantissement
s’avance.

Pourquoi la pensée
si vieille, sénile ?
Pourquoi les techniques
toujours nouvelles
enfanteraient-elles
la même haine ?

La question demeure
entre nos mains.

Quand les armes
seront-elles abolies ?
Quand la haine, la violence
seront-elles rejetées ?

Air, sol, eau, lumière —
las, ils supplient :
**Sauvez-nous.**

Qu’un matin neuf
puisse surgir,
qu’un répit vienne.
Bonheur, paix, prospérité —
bâtissons-les ensemble.

Que la terre brûlée,
que les vies pesantes
retrouvent le calme.
Que l’esprit pur
flamboie encore,
tel une étoile,
bénédiction du ciel.

Que l’abondance
se répande partout.
Qu’un soleil neuf
se lève, riant
d’une lumière fraîche.

দৈনন্দিন

সারাদিন ধরে
মাঝি জাল ফেলছে
কিছু মাছ পড়েছে জড়িয়ে,
কিছু গেছে পালিয়ে,
যারা কিনা বন্ধনমুক্ত। 

সংসারের মায়াজাল,
বহুজন পরে ধরা
ছাড়া পায় তারা
যারা হয় মুক্ত, ভক্ত
ঠাকুরের, হয়না দিশেহারা। 

লাফিয়ে বেরিয়ে
আসে ঐ মাছেদের মত
সকাল সন্ধে বিকাল
করে না স্পর্শ
তাদের স্বার্থের জঞ্জাল।

----

In and Out of the Net

All day long
the fishermen cast their nets.
Some fish are held in bondage,
others slip away—
the ones who escape all binding.

In the net of worldly illusion
countless lives are caught;
yet freedom shines for those
who bond with the Lord,
never lose in delusion’s haze.

They leap away,
like fish that break the mesh—
morning, noon, and evening
untouched, unswayed
by the litter of selfish desires.

---

Entre les mailles du filet

Tout le jour long les pêcheurs vont jetant,
Leurs lourds filets qui luisent sur les flots.
Certains poissons y tombent en bondage,
D’autres s’enfuient, déliés de tout lien.

Dans les rets vains des mirages du monde,
Bien des humains se laissent enchaîner ;
Mais la clarté sourit à ceux qui prient,
À ceux qui vont sans s’égarer jamais.

Comme les fins poissons qui rompent l’onde,
Ils jaillissent, libres, hors de l’écueil ;
Leur cœur, matin, midi, jusqu’à la nuit,
Reste indemne aux fardeaux de l’égoïsme.

The Sun on Top

The Sun on Top

My family, my friends — my delight,
In my heart they shine so bright.
With them I smile, with them I stay,
No shadow falls when they’re in play.

I drift through mornings, drift through night,
I wander streets where dreams take flight.
Between the dusk and each new dawn,
I find the joy I rest upon.

When despair betrays my hope,
I cry without pause, without scope.
My eyes at once call out my mates,
They blaze like the sun at heaven’s gates.

Like the sunflower follows the sun’s long run,
I turn toward them, thirsty for the fun.
Their gazes warm my soul in the winters,
Their voices take me to my universe.

I sing, I dance, I laugh my way
No fear, no shame to cloud the day.
I know life isn’t always kind,
But friends and family make it mine.

Le soleil au top

Ma famille et mes amis,
Ça me plaît beaucoup.
Dans mon cœur ils me font coucou,
Avec eux je souris toujours,
Y a pas de souci quand ils m’entourent.

Je balance ma vie
Les matins et les nuits,
Je glisse sur les chemins,
Je flâne dans les rues,
Entre les soirs et les bonjours
Je trouve mon bonheur, mon paradis.

Quand les désespoirs me trompent,
Je pleure sans arrêt, sans stop,
Mes yeux d’un coup cherchent mes potes,
Ils brillent comme le soleil au top.

Comme le tournesol suit le soleil dans la voie,
Je me tourne vers eux, assoiffé de leur joie,
Leurs regards réchauffent mes hivers,
Leurs voix m'emmènent vers mon univers.

Je chante, je danse, je bavarde, je plaisante,
Sans limite, sans peur, sans aucune honte.
Je sais que la vie n’est pas toujours souriante,
Ma famille, mes amis, font mon monde.

The French version came first with this poem. I am overjoyed.

 

Where the poem is born

There lies a poem
from its rhythm
I hear the joy, the pain.

Its beats tell me a
thousand stories
the words failed.

Its meters there sing
the most prosaic songs
the form couldn't contain.

Hum goes the tone
grace takes the note
its sounds numb the ground
the sense falls to flow.

 

Là où naisse le poème

Là gise un poème,
que dans son rythme
j’entende la joie, la douleur.

Que ses battements me disent
mille histoires
que nul mot ne pût dire.

Que ses mètres chantent
les plus prosaïques chansons
que la forme ne pût contenir.

Qu’il fredonne un ton,
que la grâce prenne la note,
que ses sons pèsent la terre,
et que le sens s’écoule en flot.

In between dignity and grace

 In between dignity and grace

with dignity, leave
when it’s time to leave
the breath halts
eyes close
from death to death
journey restarts

in another time and space
the curtain will raise
life will begin again
from life to life
the grace
never stops

---

entre dignité et grâce

quand vient l’heure
de partir
le souffle s’interrompt
les yeux se ferment
le voyage reprend
de mort en mort

dans un autre temps,
un autre espace
le rideau se lèvera
la vie recommencera
la grâce de la vie
ne connaît pas de point

---

মর্যাদা আর কৃপা’র মাঝে

যখন বিদায়ের আসে সময়
শ্বাস যায় থেমে
চোখ বুজে আসে
মৃত্যু থেকে মৃত্যুতে
যাত্রা আবার শুরু হয়

অন্য এক কালে,
ভিন্ন কোনো স্থানে
পর্দা পুনরায় ওঠে
জীবন থেকে জীবনের
অনুকম্পা হয় শুরু
চলে নিরন্তর

The Necklace on my Neck

With the necklace on my neck
I’m on the lookout of gold
when I discovered it
I realized it was always there
with me shining

Yet I kept on searching
like an ignorant buyer
when I touched the gold
what did I uncover,
the gold in the necklace

I went on
and found the gold
in the necklace is the same
gold shining in the ring,
glittering in the bracelet

it is the same you in me
in me it is the same you

all the problems of the world
dissolved, though they were
just as it were

the necklace on my neck
a bonding that was lost
in the bondage

Selling, or Underselling

Google images

What are we selling, or underselling
poverty or apples, is that the question?
A life whose fruition is not so tender,
a trade disguised as hunger,
a dignity bent low
beneath the dripping rim of a cart
out of rhythm, out of flow.

We sell sweetness,
but undersell the storm endured,
the countless mornings of lifting,
pushing, calling out to strangers
who seldom meet our eyes
still the ears hear the cries.

And yet the drizzle comes to
dampen his fire,
to deaden his hope,
to dull his spirit, to extinguish
the small flame of comfort.
It tries to hush the means of need,
to lull the struggle into silence,
to overawe his resolve with thunder.
But he remains, in quiet defiance,
letting the wind attempt to quieten him,
to shush his voice,
to soft pedal his courage,
to still his movement,
to tongue-tie his hunger.
Though each raindrop falls like a thought,
in the silence between traffic horns—
a pin drop moment of endurance
that no gale can erase.

What is the price of resilience?
What is the weight of a dream
measured against the weight of rain?
Society takes the fruit,
but leaves the man in shadows,
huddled in silence
where no coin's noise can reach.

Life is difficult—
but more challenging still
is the quiet bargain struck
each day:
to stand in the flood,
not utter a word to
the western world,
still believe
in tomorrow’s buyer,
to drive through hunger
without brake, without gear.

The Old Man and the Remote

Violence walks hand in hand
on the slums of Dharavi, in Mumbai,
on the Oxford Street, in London.

Corruption talks in the renamed
places around the world.
War rages in every corner of the
enduring planet, there's none
to give a hand.

He takes a virtual tour with
a remote in his hackneyed hand.

He sits — a soft ruin in a
creaking chair,
tea gone cold beside him,
remote clenched like a rosary
in brittle hands.
Click —
the face of a child bloodied
in Gaza.
Click —
a child gunning down another child
in New York,
a woman wailing in Delhi’s
smoke-stained streets.
Click —
a river, once holy, now swallowing
corpses.
Click —
another flag, another gun, another
demon, another god.

How many channels must
a man watch before
silence speaks?
How many tongues
must scream
before the world learns
to hush?

The anchors all wear suits,
like mourners at a wedding
like business deals negotiated
during a funeral.
They smile through the slaughter,
sell grief in high-definition.
"Breaking News," they say,
but nothing breaks—
except the earth,
nothing collapses, except the bodies.

It’s a child’s play to find
out what is in tandem in
all the countries of the world; in Russia,
Ukraine, Pakistan, India, Iran, Israel,
California, and such
an ordeal to find the odd one out
because there is none, none at all.

no action to put a full stop

The soul of an old man
too drained to remember
if hope was ever more than
a rumor, if shadows ever reflected
in a mirror.

He stares
as cities fall like dominoes
across the curve of the globe,
and wonders if the world is round
so sorrow can come full circle.
Stalwarts collectively destroying
the world with cerebral finesse.
Click —
a mother digging with her hands.
Click —
a temple burning.
Click —
a boy with no legs
and a soccer dream.
Click —
advertisements.

He laughs —
a sound like paper tearing —
and switches off.

He sits in silence,
where birds still
remember songs
the news forgot. 

A voice,
more than a thousand years
old, his remote song
becomes the dawn,
carried by wings
that will not rest
until peace is home again.

অর্থহীন

অর্থহীন

সবার হাতেই একটা
অদৃশ্য ঘড়ি আছে,
তার কাঁটা ঠিকই চলছে,
টিক টিক করে,
শুধু আমারটাই ঠিক,
এমন চিন্তা অর্থহীন।

সবারই একটা ধর্ম আছে,
কর্ম আছে, আছে পোশাক
আশাক, খাবার দাবার,
আত্মীয়-স্বজন, বন্ধু-বান্ধব,
ইত্যাদি, প্রভৃতি।

সব ঠিকই চলছে,
তাদের নিজের মতো করে।

নিয়ম আর অনিয়ম,
ভালো আর মন্দ,
তাল আর বেতাল একটা
ছন্দে, নিজের পছন্দে
চলাচল করে।

এই নিয়ে কথা কাটাকাটি,
হাতাহাতি, গালাগালি,
গলাগলি নিতান্তই অর্থহীন। 

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Meaningless

Everyone carries
an invisible clock,
its hands ticking,
tick by tick—
to think mine alone is right
is meaningless.

Everyone has a faith
including faithlessness,
a duty, a dress,
hopes, food to eat,
relatives, friends,
and so on, and so forth.

Everything moves along,
each in its own way.

Rules and breaches,
good and bad,
in rhythm or out of rhythm—
all move forward
in their chosen cadence.

Quarreling over this,
scuffling, abusing,
clinging and clawing—
is utterly meaningless
a worthless way of
wasting time..

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Insensé

Nous portons tous
une horloge invisible,
ses aiguilles battent
comme un cœur discret,
tic après tic.

Croire que
seulement la mienne,
dit l’heure juste
n’a pas de sens.

Chacun porte une foi,
ou bien le vide d’une foi
perdue, un devoir
à accomplir,
un vêtement à revêtir,
des rêves, du pain à partager,
des visages aimés,
des amitiés fragiles—
et tant d’autres bribes de vie.

Tout avance,
chaque existence
selon sa propre voie.

Règles et transgressions,
ombres et clartés,
rythmes accordés ou dissonants—
tous poursuivent leur chemin
au pas qu’ils ont choisi.

Se quereller pour cela,
se débattre, se salir
de mots amers,
s’accrocher, s’arracher—
n’est qu’un néant d’efforts,
une danse stérile
où se consume le temps.

Layoffs, a relook

Yes—today I stand as founder
of an organization.
Let the company hold the hands,
befriend its employees until their
journey’s end.

Fresh as they are, I behold
dreams glimmering in their eyes.

Let me guard their innocence,
not shatter it with
monstrous procedures,
a cruel litany of inimical lies.

If ever I must cast them aside,
I would rather close my doors,
my head bowed in shame
for profits wrung
from such a sordid game.

And so I pray to God:
do not turn me into a terrorist,
a willing culprit
who, in the name of business,
fires upon the unarmed,
banishing them without remorse.

If I should ever succumb,
let guilt consume me
as they depart with broken steps,
odd and unsteady gaits.

In that moment,
may I not puff my chest
with the arrogance of cost
saved— but see only
a machine stripped of use,
utterly lost.

No, I will not tread upon them.
Until they choose to leave,
let me not abandon a single soul,
let that alone be my goal.

Before I destroy their journeys
midway,
let me relook at the rule book:
let it proclaim that layoffs are
failures of vision, never
successes.

This is Not What You Think

This is Not What You Think

The apple floats in mid-air,
wearing a bowler hat.
It will not bruise,
no matter how far it falls.

A window opens inside a window,
each frame showing the same sky
that shifts its clouds when you blink.
You will never catch it in the act.

The pipe smiles—
its wooden mouth whispering,
You want to smoke me,
but the smoke is only chalk dust
rising from a blackboard.

The man in the mirror
turns away from you,
but his reflection stays,
chewing a bite of bread
that no one will ever swallow.

Birds made of paper
fold the horizon into a smaller square
and post it through a slot in the sun.
By the time you unfold it,
the daylight has already escaped.

Everything here is true
except the things you can touch—
and those
are the most dangerous of all.

…

Ceci n’est pas ce que tu crois

La pomme flotte dans l’air,
coiffée d’un chapeau melon.
Elle ne se meurtrira pas,
peu importe la hauteur de la chute.

Une fenêtre s’ouvre dans une fenêtre,
chaque cadre montrant le même ciel
qui déplace ses nuages quand tu clignes des yeux.
Tu ne le surprendras jamais en flagrant délit.

La pipe sourit—
sa bouche de bois murmure,
Tu veux me fumer,
mais la fumée n’est que de la poussière de craie
qui s’élève d’un tableau noir.

L’homme dans le miroir
te tourne le dos,
mais son reflet reste,
mâchant un morceau de pain
que personne n’avale jamais.

Des oiseaux de papier
plient l’horizon en un petit carré
et le glissent dans une fente du soleil.
Quand tu l’ouvres enfin,
le jour s’est déjà enfui.

Tout ici est vrai
sauf les choses que tu peux toucher—
et celles-là
sont les plus dangereuses de toutes.

Rise and fall

Rise and fall

How many times has the sun
lied to me
setting and rising in front
of my eyes
planted the blue of the skies

the faulty lines of the horizon
painted boundaries like an imposter
the planet that seems to stand
are making rounds of the star

lies day and night are staged
in darkness and light
in between betrayals of the breaths,
a passing journey of memories
suffers in life and death

every dude knows it's false
even before the curtain rises
and after it inevitably falls  

…

Montée et chute

Combien de fois le soleil
m’a-t-il menti
se couchant et se levant
devant mes yeux
plantant le bleu des cieux

les lignes défaillantes de l’horizon
tracent des frontières comme
un imposteur
la planète qui semble immobile
tourne autour de l’étoile

mensonges du jour et de la nuit
joués dans l’ombre et la lumière
entre les trahisons du souffle,
un voyage fugace de souvenirs
souffre dans la vie et la mort

chaque homme sait que c’est faux
avant même que le rideau ne s’ouvre
et après qu’il tombe inévitablement

The Way of the Devotee

 

The Way of the Devotee
(26 qualities as mentioned in the Bhagvat Gita)

He walks softly, with kindness for all—
a heart unclenched,
never quarrelling,
not raising dust in another’s path.

Truth is his companion,
firm and gentle,
he sees the same spark in beggar or king—
equal eyes,
faultless not in flawlessness
but in his unshakable fairness.

Coins may pass from his palm
as easily as prayers—
he is charitable,
mild,
clean in deed, body, and mind,
simple like clear water,
benevolent like a mother’s lullaby.

Peace flows through him—
he does not clutch the noise of the world.
His soul rests
in complete attachment to Krishna,
not as a clinging vine,
but as surrendering river.

Material desires have left his doorstep;
he owns no want
but the sweetness of the name.
He is meek,
not defeated,
but hollowed of ego.

Steady as a flame sheltered from wind,
he controls his senses,
governs the hungers
of flesh and mind.
His plate holds only what is needed—
not more than required.
Illusion wraps the world in silk—
he does not wear it.

He offers respect to everyone,
asks nothing in return—
no desire for respect of his own.
He is grave,
deep as a still well,
yet merciful,
a monsoon for the suffering.

His words taste like honey—
he is friendly,
poetic,
not for show,
but because beauty rests in his bones.

He is expert,
not in trickery,
but in knowing the sacred art of living.
And when silence is the truest sound,
he becomes silent.

This is the devotee—
not born,
but shaped
by the chisel of devotion.

 

Note:

The **26 qualities of a devotee** are mentioned in **Chapter 12** of the *Bhagavad Gita*, titled **"Bhakti Yoga"** or *The Yoga of Devotion*. Specifically, they appear in **verses 13 to 20** (BG 12.13–12.20), where Lord Krishna describes the attributes of His **most dear devotee**—one who is dear to Him. These verses are often referred to as the **"devotee’s portrait"**, offering a practical and deeply moving guide for a spiritual aspirant.
BG 12.13

*adveṣṭā sarva-bhūtānāṁ maitraḥ karuṇa eva ca
nirmamo nirahaṅkāraḥ sama-duḥkha-sukhaḥ kṣamī*

*He who is free from malice toward all beings, friendly and compassionate, free from possessiveness and ego, balanced in pleasure and pain, and forgiving—such a devotee is dear to Me.*